I dance on a stage built out of the bones of lovers past,
every step grinds another ribcage into dust,
and the fumes suffocate my lungs until I puke,
but they will laugh and cheer, ‘encore!’

This dance is old,
the jokes are plain,
the act falls apart,
under its own weight,
the weight of mediocrity.

Nothing changes;
everybody laughs out loud together,
and cries in the dark alone at night.

Life continues,
the neverending story of loss, heartbreak and death,
with the occasional tale of love, triumph and life,
to keep the audience going,
and stop them from killing themselves outright,
as opposed to the slow deaths we all work towards secretly.

July 25, 2009